


Remember

by genee



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-30
Updated: 2003-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genee/pseuds/genee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's hot and humid and Orlando in the afternoon</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Elton John Songfic Challenge, lyrics throughout from _I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues_. Subtext, closing, and late-night inspiration from Beth Orton's _Tangent_.

  
**just stare into space**

It's hot and humid and Orlando in the afternoon, thunderstorms hovering just out of range and if Lance had the energy, he'd slip outside and just wait, wait for the wrenching clouds and the lightning shadows and the huge wet drops falling in between, but he doesn't. He clearly doesn't, and so he watches through the window, waiting for the storm to move on, for the rain to pass, for the sun to shine and then set again, steam rising from the ground like so many memories until the night falls silent, stars spinning gold and pale blue, distant dreams and an ache so deep Lance doesn't even want to remember. He does though, he can't help it, just like he can't sleep, hasn't slept for days now, dreams like random flashes until he hurts all over, sweetsore and so familiar it almost feels good, like swollen knuckles in time-worn seams.

He closes his eyes, just briefly, just for a moment, just to catch his breath. He listens to the rain, listens to the quiet slur of his own breathing and the rumble of the clouds outside, and he waits, listening, because tomorrow is soon enough, and because really, there's not much else he can do.

 **and picture my face in your hands**

Chris pokes around Lance's fridge, looking for something he knows he won't find, and finally grabs three of the brightly labeled bottles he maybe sorta wanted in the first place. It's Lance's latest microbrew, dark and thickly sweet, meant to be served with blood oranges sliced thick although Chris doesn't bother, doesn't even glance at the basket on the counter, piled high with heavy rounded fruit. Lance would, but he doesn't want to feel the knife in his hand, shiny-sharp and swift, doesn't want to think about thin pebbly skin and warm juicy flesh, slippery, sticky between his fingers. Not today.

Chris heads out of the kitchen, handing one bottle to Justin and dangling the other two between his fingers, and Lance slides off the counter to follow him, bare feet silent on the cool tile floor. He closes his laptop as he passes by, a soft snick under his fingers, distracting, like Justin's sneakers slipping from his heels in the middle of Lance's kitchen. He thinks maybe there's really something wrong with him now, seriously, because, fuck, that's just not a normal comparison.

Justin and Chris are going back and forth about something, basketball or bikers or maybe even Trace, Lance can't tell, isn't even paying attention. He's watching the window. It's raining again, rolling thunder creeping closer, and he's waiting for that first bone-jarring boom, sipping his beer and minding his own business, when Chris notices he and Lance are holding half-empty bottles but Justin hasn't touched his. "What's up, J? You holding out for Bass-flavored body shots or something?"

Justin's eyes shadow and he tries on a scowl, it's a look he's been working on lately, but he lets it go after a few seconds, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Maybe I am," he says, one eyebrow quirked, his chin raised to hide the giggle in his voice. "What's it to ya, Kirkpatrick?"

Chris flicks a bottle cap at Justin, and Lance wonders which of them hates the golden boy more right now, him or Chris. He thinks by all rights it should be Chris, but Lance knows that isn't true. He knows Chris could never hate Justin, could never hate any of them, not really. Chris has been taking care of them forever, picking up the pieces and drying their tears, laughing and bouncing and holding on tight. So even if he must be completely sick and tired of the drama by now, he's still here, in Lance's too-perfect living room, ready for another round of broken-hearted boybander.

Of course he is.

Of course, because Chris is Justin's best friend, and that's what best friends do.

Except Justin isn't exactly broken-hearted even if he should be, and Lance sort of is even though he shouldn't be, and Chris is Chris, wide-open and prickly and maybe just a little lost right now, and the whole fucking thing is so irritating in so many different ways that just thinking about it makes Lance's head spin. He's actually dizzy, rapt by the rain spilling down his window, shapeless and steady, knowing full well that Chris isn't the only one.

Lance could never hate Justin, either.

"Dude," Chris says, his voice startling Lance even though it isn't directed at him. Chris is talking to Justin, and Lance glances over to where Justin's sprawled on the floor, smiling up at both them, something like hope shining in his eyes. Lance doesn't want to see that, so he lets his gaze wander over Justin's chest instead, down the hard line of his abs, and lower, until Justin shifts a little and Lance doesn't want to see that anymore, either. Chris is still talking, about what Lance has no idea, and so he turns back to the window, watery rivers and the dull glow of his own reflection in the glass. He tries to pay attention.

"You suck at being miserable," Chris tells Justin, and Lance smiles a little, because it's true, and because no one has more experience with misery than Chris. Except for maybe Lance, but Lance is almost used to it by now, thinks he might even need it, like he needs caffeine and cell phones and afternoon thunder. Like Joey needs his daughters and JC needs his music and Chris needs Ritalin.

"You know what you need, J?" Chris asks, somehow following Lance's train of thought. "You need to mope around more, all scary-pale and crying and drinking too much, throwing tantrums all over the place! Dude, you know you throw the best the tantrums!"

Lance laughs, low and quiet, sinking further into the soft leather of his favorite chair, because it's true, Justin throws a tantrum like nobody's business, even if he hasn't done it in a while, and even if Lance knows the last one was really more for show than anything, because JC had been sick and tired and just needed a fucking break and wouldn't ever say so on his own. Still, it had been a thing of beauty, and for the first time in months Lance sort of misses being on the road.

Chris is pacing now, caught up in his thinking, and when he turns to Lance his voice is conspiratorial. "I got it, Bass! We'll just leak a few little hints, nothing hardcore, and all the pretty boy will have to do is hop around town with a handful of his favorite honeys and voila! Instant spin!" Then he points at Justin and raises a careful eyebrow. "Just try not to smile for the cameras, J, and stay out of the sun for a while, so you'll look all broken and beautiful in the pictures." Chris circles back to Lance. "Am I right or am I right? Lance?"

Lance nods, because he's supposed to, and because Chris is probably right even if he doesn't need to be. They pay a damn lot of money for round-the-clock PR, and their press machine is one of the best in the business, no doubt about it. Still, Lance thinks broken and beautiful is a good look for Justin, a look he might have seen for real once, but that was a long time ago and in another language and Lance isn't sure how true those memories are anymore. He catches just a glimpse of Chris's dark eyes before he turns to the window again. "I dunno, man. He's probably okay the way he is."

"Y'all can stop talking about me like I'm not here," Justin says, and Lance can tell without looking that Justin's rolling his eyes at them, smiling, and that he really is okay. "And anyway, I'm fine. The press is just pushing now, and fuck, I'm sick of talking about her, about us, about the break up. It's over. Whatever, right? I'm okay."

"Exactly my point," Chris says, smirking, like he's got Justin right where he wants him. "This whole I'm-okay-you're-okay deal you've got going on? It ain't right. Your lack of enthusiasm for public spectacle is bad for popstars everywhere!"

"Chris." Justin shakes his head. "Please."

"C'mon, J. Remember when you used to be a perfectionist? You gotta do better than this, for fuck's sake. Brit was supposed to be the love of your life!"

"Yeah, but she wasn't, yo."

 _Huh_ , Lance thinks, not surprised by the words, but by the easy way Justin says them. _Huh._

Chris, apparently, is not surprised at all. "So, she wasn't. So what?"

"So, I'm tired of acting like she was, and it's finally over this time, and I talked to Johnny already and he's cool with it." Justin rubs a hand through his fledgling curls, making him seem both older than he is and somehow still just impossibly young. "And so, uhm, if you look at it right, like the way I'm sayin', it all makes perfect sense."

It doesn't, though, and Lance swallows hard, the ache in his belly spreading to his bones. Justin reaches up and whacks Chris upside the head, and Chris whacks him back, and they're off and running. Lance stays very still, which is always a good idea when Chris and Justin start this shit in close quarters, and is a particularly good idea today, all things considered.

"And Brit is my friend, so, no," Justin says, settling back for a minute, a little breathy from wrestling around with Chris.

Lance is drawn to the rasp in Justin's voice, even if he has to turn away after a minute and close his eyes tight. This part isn't surprising. Lance has heard it before, more or less, and the echo in his head makes his throat sore and his heart slam against his ribs. He can almost see Justin's eyes as they were then, clear and still unjaded, feel the heat from his smooth hands, the pressure of his thumbs swirling lazy circles just below Lance's ears. And now, when Lance opens his eyes he hears the years passing through Justin's voice, hears the road and the miles and something else, too, something lean and warm and wanting, and fuck, Lance doesn't want to hear that. He really doesn't.

"Anyway, I'm just gonna leave it alone, dude. I'm not gonna say anything to hurt her, or do anything to fuck things up more than already are, okay?"

Chris sighs dramatically and throws his hands in the air, arms wide, and Justin jumps into his lap, planting sloppy kisses on Chris's cheek. He laughs out loud, playful again, telling Chris, "Relax, dude. I'm fine, you're fine, we're all fine."

 _Fine_ , Lance thinks, rubbing his eyes. _Exactly_.

The heavy afternoon clouds have moved on now, and sunlight streams through the windows, and still he can't look away. It's okay though, Lance is fine, just like Justin said. They all are. Really. They'd agreed early on not to fall in love with each other, they promised they wouldn't, all of them. Fooling around was a good thing, a necessary thing, an NSYNC thing, but more than that could hurt the group, and no one wanted that. True, things were different now, _they_ were different now, and if Chris and JC had maybe started something when the last tour ended, well, they all did their best to ignore it. They'd agreed, made a rule, made a decision. They'd made themselves over after that, made themselves new, and if making the rule in the first place had nearly killed them, they'd been babies then, all of them, angsty and easily distracted, and it had been the right thing to do. Then.

But now? Fuck. Justin and Britney weren't even pretending anymore, JC was making music with strangers, and in another country for god's own sake. So what if Lance ached all over and from the inside out, and if Joey called them from LA every night, just checking up, man, just checking? And Chris? Fuck. Chris was Chris.

Outside, a lingering cloud wanders passed Lance's window, throwing lazy shadows across his face. He hears Chris sigh again, and then giggle, and then he and Justin are goofing off like always and Lance wishes the storm would have lasted longer because the sun is just too bright now, sharp and clear and blueing the skies behind his eyes. He thinks breathing is harder than it used to be, and he wonders, not for the first time, how Justin does it, how he makes everything so simple for himself, how he boxes up all the complications and just moves on, lesson learned, next.

 **live for each second without hesitation**

"I know!" Chris hollers from somewhere under Justin, his voice muffled by rumpled t-shirt and shifting muscles and a decade of wet-willy problem solving. "You should take a vacation, J! Go somewhere quiet and exotic, give 'em something good to spin. It'll be fun!"

"I don't need a vacation, Chris. And anyway, I'm already on vacation. We all are, right?"

"No," Chris says. "This isn't a vacation, man, it's a hiatus. Two different things."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Huh."

Lance hears Justin's beatbox fading into the kitchen, hears his refrigerator door open and close, hears ice clinking into a glass, hears Justin's phone voice, smooth and guarded and too low for Lance to catch his words. Before long the beatboxing starts again, and Lance knows he's off the phone with whoever he was talking to and is just wandering around, listening to the sound of his own voice swelling through Lance's house.

"Hey, Bass!" Chris stage-whispers, still coming down from tangling with Justin, fingers drumming a relentless rhythm across his thigh. "What's up with you?"

Lance shrugs, shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, but Chris's eyes narrow like Lance ought to know better, which is true, he ought to. "Thinking too much, I guess."

"Pfft."

"I'm just tired, man. Working too hard. It's nothing." It's close to exhaustion, which isn't nothing, not for Lance, not even if it were true, and when he turns to look at Chris he wishes he didn't. Chris's eyes are glittery and determined, and Lance doesn't want to know what that's about. He doesn't. "Take J somewhere else? Anywhere, Chris. Please?"

"No way, man. Besides, listen?" Chris cocks his head, and Lance holds his breath, straining to hear what Chris hears. Nothing unusual -- Justin on his cell phone, the rhythm of his words catching a little, muted sniffles. He's talking to Lynn, Lance can tell, and he shakes his head, because seriously, it's at least thirteen kinds of fucked up, how well they all know each other.

"He's fine." Lance turns back to the window, and closes his eyes. "He's a momma's boy, that's all."

"Takes one to know one, huh?"

"Fucker."

Chris laughs, and Lance feels the ache squirm along his spine. "He'll be hungry when he gets off the phone."

"So order something," Lance snaps, his eyes flashing at Chris, who just grins back like he's won the boyband lottery or something, because Lance should have told him to take Justin the hell out for something to eat then, and fuck if he didn't.

Chris smiles, and Lance can't help smiling back, finally, because Chris seems happier now, and when Chris is happy, it's kinda contagious. Besides, the sun feels good on his face for a change, and Lance is warm, and yawning, and oddly comforted by the faraway sounds of Justin talking to his momma. Lance's eyelids droop and his pulse slows and he feels like a kid again, day after endless day of raw throats and sore muscles and sleepy stolen moments.

"Lance." Chris's breath catches like he might feel time shifting, too, and Lance hears him swear softly through the hiss. "C'mere, baby. If your gonna pretend to be JC today, least I can do is play with your hair while you sleep."

Lance slides from his chair to the couch in three shuffling steps, eyes barely open and already half asleep. Chris may have been teasing but he still means it, because Lance really is out there now, and because JC's been away for too long, _just vibin' with some truly cool cats_ , and Chris maybe misses him more than he wants to admit. And because this is how they are, all of them, how they've always been, or almost always, anyway. There was a time early on, when Lance wasn't really one of them yet, when they all said they were brothers and didn't really mean it, but those days are long gone and decisions have been made and what they have together is maybe the only real thing any of them has ever known.

Lance stretches out, warm leather soft on his skin, and then he curls up a little, hooking his arms around Chris's leg and tugging until he's comfortable, breathing in the familiar scent of Chris-this-close. Chris's hands slip through his hair, slow and soothing, and Lance wonders if it's strange for him, because Lance's hair is longer than it used to be, but it's still short, far shorter than JC's hair, even if it is soft and spikey-thick and warm from the sun through his windows.

"You should go to him," Lance whispers sleepily, his fingers tracing the raised scars around Chris's knee. "Fly to London and bring C home."

Chris doesn't say anything for a few minutes, and this is Lance's favorite Chris, quiet and comforting and true. "Yeah," he says, finally. "Yeah, I really should."

Chris remembers Lance and Justin sprawled on the warehouse floor, ten hours into another brutal rehearsal and it wasn't over yet. They were curled toward each other with their eyes closed, fingers touching across the open space between them, too tired to move. A hundred degrees inside that hellhole, the heavy air barely breathable, slick with sweat and frustration and unfallen rain, and they were just kids, too young for this, too young for any of it. He remembers Justin licking his lips and Lance sighing, and he remembers catching JC's eye in the mirror that day and the way he shook his head. Both of them had watched Justin's fingers curl into Lance's, JC smiling kinda sad and Chris wondering if he should say something. He didn't, though. Not then. And sometimes he wishes he never did.

Lance drowses, hears Chris whispering above him, words falling through his hair honeyslow, a story maybe, floating sweet and light across his throat, swirling over his belly, mixing until it sounds like Chris says, "Gonna go get Jayce now, kiddo. You bring Justin home while I'm gone, okay?"

Lance waits for the distant boom of thunder, the slick pour of wild rain, the sudden snap of his own nerves jolting him awake, but there's only Chris's soft humming and the low throb of Justin's presence and the long slow drift of melting dreams.

 **and never forget i'm your man**

When Lance opens his eyes the windows are dark, glowing ghostly blue with reflected light. An old movie flickers black and white across from him, star-crossed lovers and choker pearls and everything just right, the sound so low he isn't sure at first if he actually hears it, or if he only knows the scene. Lance's arms are wrapped around legs too long and muscular, and the belly rumbling in his ear is strangely lean. The fingers in his hair are thick and hot and somehow the body beneath his isn't Chris's anymore, it's Justin's, and the knuckles grazing his throat are gingersoft.

"Justin?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Where's Chris?"

"Last flight out."

"Mmmm."

And that's all they say for a while, because even though Lance always wakes up smiling, it also takes him a while to get there, sleep-soaked and drowsy and wanting more. He doesn't protest when Justin shifts him around until he's snuggled into Justin's warm chest, the sound of Justin's heart surging steadily in his ear, doesn't even consider it. If Justin's happy with a lapful of still-sleepy Lance, he sure the hell isn't going to complain.

Justin's lips ghost over ear, his breath a slow shiver on Lance's skin. "Baby?"

"Hmmm."

"Need to wake up now." Justin's palms slide up and down Lance's arms, rubbing, setting a rhythm. "Gotta go soon."

"Go?" Lance wiggles in Justin's lap, and Justin's dick is hard and hot and pressing into his hip. He doesn't want Justin to go anywhere, but then again, he never did. Lance holds his breath, waiting for the ache to seep in, his heart dancing pale gold when it doesn't happen. "Hmmm?"

"Vacation," Justin says, like it's his favorite color, or maybe a new day of the week. "You ready?"

"Ready?" He listens carefully, and it's quiet outside, still and dark and too late to be morning yet. "Vacation?"

"You and me, Lance. White sand, blue water. Remember? Like Chris said."

"Uhm." Lance bites his lip, and Justin licks his teeth away. "Sorta?"

"We're gonna get away for a while, someplace quiet and exotic, just us."

It's hard to concentrate this close to Justin, hard to stop his thumbs from smoothing over the tight peaks of Justin's nipples, hard to stop his tongue from flicking over the teasing pulse in Justin's throat. "Chris said that, J?"

"Close enough." Justin shrugs, shifting his hips; Lance's dick twitches against his belly, pressing into his zipper, catching his breath. "Chris said you told him to bring JC home."

"Yeah," Lance says softly, leaning away from the pull of Justin's body, leaning into strong arms like a cradle all around him, hands on his hips holding him tight. "They're good together."

"I know." Justin pauses, waiting maybe, Lance isn't sure. "They are."

Lance swallows hard, wondering if it should be more complicated than this, after so much time and so many miles, after all the hurt and everything else, but somehow it just isn't. "We could be good together, too."

"We were always good together," Justin says, his lips brushing over Lance's throat, hot and wet, his breath painting dizzy swirls in Lance's ear. "Always."

"It's, yeah. It's different now?"

"I know, baby. I told Johnny, remember? I'm taking you on vacation."

Lance smiles, because he does remember, although maybe he doesn't remember it quite the same way. But there was thunder then, and Lance had hurt all over, and now, molded along the long length of Justin's body, he's willing to believe. "Vacation," he says, tilting back to see the shine in Justin eyes.

"White sand and blue water, baby. We're all about it."

"Need to bring home something special for Chris," Lance says, so close to Justin now he feels his own voice like a rumbling echo through Justin's chest. "Don't let me forget, okay?"

"Never let you forget, baby." Justin's mouth closes over his, warm and sweet and tasting like sunrise, and it's just a kiss, but it feels like something wonderful. "Like coming home, right? You and me, Lance. Remember."

 

\-- END --


End file.
